Two evenings later a heavy fog blanketed the San Francisco waterfront,
hiding its smelly wharves and damp alleys under a dreary pall. A distant
foghorn sounded dismally above the lap-lap of harbor water against
wooden piles. Vaguely the blended roar of a mighty city drifted seaward
through the murk and mist. It was a night for secrecy; for furtive
business which could not bear the light of day.
In the winding alleys of old Chinatown brooded a heavy silence, spiced
with queer oriental odors. It flowed between the buildings like a deep,
mysterious river. It reached thick tentacles up a steeply sloping street
to close around a huge stone house.
A high stone wall, clammy with the fog, surrounded the lightless
edifice. Within there seemed to be neither sound nor life nor movement.
Yet a sharp-eyed passer-by might have noticed a tiny thread of light
peeping through the drawn curtain of a second floor window.
At least the light was there, although blurred and scarcely visible in
the close-pressing fog.
One thing no curious passerby could have guessed—the luxurious richness
of the room behind that drawn curtain. Soft shaded lights spread their
glow over satin wall hangings, deep piled oriental rugs, and beautiful
costly furniture. The air was heavy with incense, sweet but oppressive.
At a table a young woman sat gazing at her reflection in a large mirror.
Clad in a loose, flowing gown of silk, her figure was almost girlish.
Her face beneath its oriental coiffure had a fresh, flowerlike beauty
which deepened as she turned and spoke.
“Suzette!” she murmured plaintively. “Do you think I am as lovely
tonight as I was three months ago?”
A trimly uniformed maid appeared from an alcove beyond the dressing
table. Her bright eyes took in the dark-haired girl in one swift,
approving glance.
“But yes, Mademoiselle! You are even more beautiful tonight!” she
answered. “It is that little touch of _tristesse_ which make you so, I
think. Is it because you are impatient to see Count Borg again after
three long months? Ah, Mademoiselle Lotus! You cannot fool the little
French maid, Suzette!”
With a laugh, the girl called Lotus shrugged her pretty shoulders.
“After all, Suzette,” she retorted, “the Count is much more charming
than the desperadoes, white and yellow, which surround us here....”
“Sh-h-h! Please, Mademoiselle!” the maid whispered sharply. “Please do
not talk that way in this house. It is not safe! To be sure, we _think_
the others have all gone out for the night, but all the same, there are
things even Mademoiselle must not say!”
“Oh, bother!” cried the younger woman, springing up with small fists
clenched in anger. “I know what you mean, Suzette! And I am tired of
measuring all my words to suit the great Cho-San. I am sick of looking
out for eavesdroppers and spies—yes, _spies_—who run to him with
reports of all I say or do! Let me tell you this, my little maid, if I
ever find _you_ have been bearing tales about me, it will not be well
for you!”
Stamping her slippered foot, Lotus turned to the window and savagely
flung up the lower sash. Through the parted curtains she leaned out,
drawing in deep breaths of the foggy night air.
“But, Mademoiselle!” cried the little French maid in a tone of keen
distress. “Suzette have nevair bear the tales to anyone. You do her a
wrong to think she would—w’at you call—double cross Mademoiselle. She
only warn you that Cho-San, he is jealous w’en you speak of Count Borg!”
“Jealous, is he?” spat the girl, whipping around to face her maid. “But
I don’t love Cho-San! I—I think I am too young to be in love with
anybody. I like Count Borg, because he is young and handsome, and—well,
he’s _different_. Cho-San is a great man. He is older and stronger and
he has the ear of the Master. But sometimes Cho-San forgets that he and
Lotus are not of the same race!”
Gently, yet with determination, Suzette took her mistress’ hand and led
her back to the chair.
“Mademoiselle excites herself too much!” she murmured, picking up a
brush and running it through the girl’s shiny, dark hair. “Suzette, she
know w’at is the reason. You are wonder if Count André Borg have make
good his escape from Haiti. Evair since Monsieur Michael Splendor
broadcast the stealing of his big cabin plane, the friends of Count Borg
have wonder if he will dare to fly straight here.”
“He’ll try, anyway, Suzette,” cried the girl. “He knows that Cho-San has
called a general meeting for day after tomorrow night. André will be
there unless something terrible happens to him between here and Haiti.
Oh, it seems like years since I saw him last!”
“And now it may be only hours till you see him again,” murmured the
little maid. “Oh, I know how you feel, Mademoiselle! But now we must
hurry, so you will not be late at the appointment downtown which Cho-San
has made for you tonight. I heard him tell you it was important.”
* * * * *
While Lotus was worrying over the whereabouts of Count Borg, the Count’s
double was speeding through the night sky less than a hundred miles east
of San Francisco.
Already Don Winslow was training himself mentally for the part he was to
play. In talking with Red Pennington who occupied the co-pilot’s place
in the big cabin plane, he tried to imitate the very tone and accent of
Count Borg’s speech.
Red, on the other hand, was training himself for the part of Penny, the
Count’s valet-to-be. Only for brief periods during the trip had he
dropped the pose of a manservant, for he knew that his part must be
played to perfection from the moment they met the first Scorpion agent.
“Do you know the place we are supposed to land, sir?” he queried in his
most respectful tone. “Even if one is acquainted with the city’s
outskirts, it won’t be easy to find an unlighted field at night.”
“That will all be taken care of, Penny,” replied the pseudo Count Borg.
“According to the last code message we got from Haiti at least one man
will be there to meet us with a fast car. Undoubtedly he will light a
couple of ground flares as soon as he hears our motor overhead. Anyhow,
judging by the highway lights ahead, we’re almost over the spot which
Splendor described.”
“But supposing, sir,” objected “Penny,” “that one of the Scorpion
stations picked up Mr. Splendor’s broadcast and was able to decode it!
In that case perhaps the man who is waiting for us will be a Scorpion
agent backed by an armed gang. If they _should_ suspect anything wrong
they wouldn’t hesitate to rub us out and ask questions later—not that
gang!”
The idea was startling enough as “Penny” expressed it. But “Count Borg”
showed no trace of nervousness.
“Of course anything is possible with that gang, as you call them,” he
agreed; “but Navy secret codes aren’t easily broken down, even by
experts. Besides I’ve got a feeling our number isn’t up yet—look, Red!
There are the ground flares being lighted now! Over to starboard, and
about two miles north. We’ll come down just between them, and upwind!”
The rough field lighted by the flares turned out to be a sandy patch
between two highways and far from any lighted house. This much Don
Winslow guessed as he set his wheels down with a gentle bump. When he
had braked to a stop beyond the flares, both of them were suddenly
blacked out, leaving earth and sky pitch dark.
“That’s so no chance-passing motor cop will see lights and start to
investigate, I guess,” remarked Red Pennington, sliding back the plane’s
sliding door. “We wouldn’t want our arrival noted on the San Francisco
Police Blotter, would we, Don?”
“Hardly!” smiled the young commander, switching off the cabin light.
“Out with you, now, shipmate! There’s a car headed this way across the
field. Keep your hand on your automatic until we know who it is. If it
should be a Scorpion reception party, we won’t go down without a
battle!”
The lightless car skidded to a dusty standstill ten feet from the plane.
Then only its head lamps flashed on, and into their blinding radiance
stepped a well-built man in civilian clothes. Keeping both hands in
sight, he faced the darkened plane and spoke.
“Commander Winslow, you and the Lieutenant may trust me without risk,”
he said quietly. “I am Hammond, from the San Francisco Office, and here
are my identification papers. This car is at your service along with
anything else you wish to ask for.”
As Red was about to step out of the shadows, Don elbowed him back. It
was still possible that a Scorpion machine gun was trained over the
car’s rear door, ready to fire at the sound of his voice.
He must make sure, without showing himself. Shielding his mouth with a
cupped hand, he threw his voice along the plane’s fuselage.
“Never mind the papers, Hammond,” he responded. “A few words will do to
show you have been in communication with our friends.”
The car’s spotlight showed Hammond’s smile.
“Wise precaution, sir!” he approved. “How’s this for a set of
passwords:—Captain Holding—beam radiophone—Count
Borg—Haiti—'Penny’—Michael Splendor? Or do you want more?”